Canon: Harry Potter Drabbles
by chromeknickers
Summary: A collection of canon-esque drabbles written for challenges. Stories ranging eras from Founding to Dumbledore to Riddle to Marauders to Trio to Post-Hogwarts and to Next-Gen — with most written during my lunch period.
1. Full Circle

**Full Circle**

"A healthy baby boy!"

George watched as the Mediwitch handed their baby—his _son_—to his wife. "He's perfect," he said, his voice hitching in his throat. "And disgusting-looking."

Angelina let out a garbled laugh through a multitude of tears and cradled the little, pink thing of warmth in the crook of her arms. "Hello, Fred," she greeted. "I'm your mum."

The baby opened his mouth and let out a thin cry, his tiny hands clenching into fists. After issuing forth what appeared to be a cross between a cry and a yawn, Fred closed his little mouth and scowled up at his mother, who let out another tearful laugh.

"And this is your dad," Angelina continued, hiccupping, turning slightly in her bed so that she could hold out the baby to her husband.

George paused before awkwardly reaching out to take his son in his arms. "He's beautiful," he said, breathlessly, smiling down at Fred as his own tears began to stream down his cheeks.

He let the tears fall on his sons naked chest, and he brought a finger down to softly stroke the baby's cheek. Swallowing back the joy and the pain, he leaned down to gently place a kiss on top his son's head, murmuring promises and adulations into his soft, wet hair. George then brought his head back up to gaze down upon this singular being that he had helped create. His son looked up at him, blinking—eyes charcoal black and small—trying to focus in on his father.

George let out a strangled laugh as another tear slid down his cheek. "Eyes that know me," he whispered, feeling a long-held sorrow lift from his heart as he looked down into his son's eyes.

He gently lifted his son up and held him close to his chest, rubbing his cheek lightly against the baby's soft skin as he spread his fingers across his tiny back. He swayed with him, as though dancing to some unheard music, humming some unrecognisable tune that only father and son shared.

"Fred," he said, tasting the name, as he ran his hand over his son's back in small circles. "Fred, Fred, Fred." He sunk his face into the crook of his baby boy's neck and he wept—wept for joy. Everything was going to be okay again.

Life had come full circle.

**FIN**

* * *

**A/N**: Another little drabble that I wrote while at work. And, no, I'm not pregnant or thinking about having a baby!

**Challenge**: In 500 words or less, describe the birth of a Next-Gen character.


	2. To Follow the Pack

**To Follow the Pack**

'When I was young, my father took me into the city to see a circus. Amongst the animals attractions were a group of people whom my father referred to as 'special entertainers'. What others called them was far less becoming. One particular act featured a bearded lady, and while she was a figure of mockery, she took it all in stride.

'At one point, a gang of teenagers began to harangue her viciously. Then, when she was distracted, the smallest of the group approached her from behind and lifted the hem of her skirt up past her thighs, exposing her knickers, and said, 'Let's see if she's just as hairy underneath this frock'.

'I remember asking my father why they did that—why do something so cruel for a lark. He told me that some people feel the need to join gangs and prove themselves by doing very stupid things. They pick on those they consider different—those who are 'weak'.

'Again, I asked why.

'He replied, 'Son, some people are weak-willed. They follow the pack because they haven't the sense to do what's right. They don't know what it means to be strong on one's own. I hope that you will learn from what you saw today.' Truth be told: I didn't—not until some years later.

'When I eventually came to Hogwarts, I was an ordinary boy amongst many—albeit I was a gangly lad, barely able to keep the skin on my bones. I wasn't really built for athletics nor was I handsome. To be quiet honest, I didn't have a lot going for me, except book smarts, and that wasn't exactly reeling in loads of mates.

'The particular friends that I did make were part of a group—a gang. In order to be admitted, I had to be initiated, which involved executing a prank. What was I to say, 'no'? Not likely. I considered the challenge to be a right of passage, a way to be accepted by my peers. I did it because I craved their approval.

'So, not heeding my father's words, I devised a prank that was seemingly harmless—seemingly. My intended target was someone I considered weaker than myself, and, let me tell you, there weren't that many to choose from. His name is unimportant, but what I did to him was.

'There is a Flame-Freezing Charm that allows fire to become harmless, creating only a gentle, tickling sensation instead of burns. It is a precise magic. I had intended to trap this boy in a cage of fire, cast the charm, and then watch him panic—see what he would do. Childish, I know. But the problem was that I didn't get the charm set before he ran through the flames, burning himself, badly.

'No one knew I set up the prank. My friends took credit. And while I evaded punishment, I could not escape my guilt. What those boys had done at the circus was cruel, but it didn't hurt anyone—not physically, at least. What I did was, and, honestly, it made me no better than those lads, even if I hadn't intended harm. In fact, I think it made me worse. Not a day goes by that I don't think about that boy and what could have been. If I had only the courage to be strong on my own.'

**X  
**

'Why did you tell me this?' the boy asks, eyes blank.

The haggard wizard leans on his desk and smiles sadly. 'I see a lot of myself in you, and I know that it was you who sabotaged Neville Longbottom's potion in class, causing it to explode in his face.'

'Zabini—'

He raises a pale hand, effectively silencing the younger wizard. 'Mr Zabini and a few others took credit for _your_ prank—an act that could have killed a student," he reprimands. 'And while you can be like me and allow others to accept _your_ punishment, I want you to learn from my mistakes.' He grimaces and meets the boy's gaze unwaveringly. 'I may have been too young to heed my father's words, but you are not.'

The tall, slender boy remain silent. He does not want to feel guilt, but he cannot help it. He furrows his brow and casts his eyes downward.

'Theodore, do you understand that you do not have to follow the pack?'

Nott eyes the wizard coolly, but there is a flicker of understanding in his ice blue eyes. 'I do, Professor Lupin,' he replies. 'I believe I do.'

* * *

**A/N**: Another lunch-time drabble.

**Challenge**: Your character plans and executes a prank that goes horribly wrong, badly injuring someone. How will your character cope with this knowledge? 750 words, canon characters only, but no canon pranks.


	3. Eyes Like Rivers of Fire

**Eyes Like Rivers of Fire**

They were deep, so very deep—eyes like rivers of fire. Deep pools of scarlet nothingness that one could not hope to see the bottom of, could not want to. Around the edges were dark, sunken craters. Below that, in the middle, was something white. Yes. White with holes, like two puncture wounds where a nose should have been.

I am afraid.

It has a white skull—beyond the point of decay where the sun has bleached the bone raw. A mouth—I think it is a mouth—is nothing but a slit where a forked tongue lolls out, spinning lies and threats. The rest of his body is like a phantom—the ethereal merging with the corporeal form. I swallow hard and look away. I cannot focus on it for too long or my stomach will rise to my throat. It already has. I taste apple bits—bitter and undigested.

Hissing now—there is such a great deal of hissing going on. Accusations being hurled back and forth in such a way that I am certain they are both speaking in Parseltongue. Talk of accidents, of love and sacrifice, of wands and ownership and power—all words, just…words. The eyes tell more than the tongue, but it is words that harm, that kill.

The second pair of eyes, green and shining, are like reflective pools. I am reminded of liquid thoughts, and I am comforted. I am confident that he will make all right, but in faith, I know not how. I don't know. He rose from the dead. That's what he did. He died and came back. Both did. One cannot live while the other…

Suddenly, there is a flash and a roar that starts white and goes to orange then red, and it rushes on and on like the wind. I feel myself push bodily out of the way, trying to catch it, see it...somehow. My head is light, and I am dizzy. I feel like I am floating. It's too much to comprehend. Too much, too—it is so simple and so anticlimactic that my mind can't _think _it justice.

He—_It_—falls to the ground, arms spread wide like a bat's wing. No intake of breath. Stone cold. I don't know—I don't know if he had ever been alive, except maybe in his mum's belly, kicking and struggling to be free. No more. Now, now he lies shrivelled with spider fingers clutching at air. Eyes flat—dull and listless. No more deep rivers of fire. No more hissing. He is gone.

Silence.

It is deafening. I hear the ringing in my ears like a swan's song, never to return. The pitch of silence and of death never to be heard again. It's beautiful, but it's sad. And then a new song is sung: cheers, wails, laments—they trumpet in my ears until I find myself screaming with them—laughing, crying, sobbing, thanking, praying.

Harry's won—he won for us.

* * *

**A/N**: This is Luna's interpretation of the final battle between Harry and Voldemort. As you may have noticed, I went with stream-of-consciousness. This was rather fun to write.

**Challenge**: You must write about the final duel between Harry and Voldemort. Rules: 1) 500 words or less; 2) it has to be written from the PoV of someone who we know was definitely at the Battle, but _not_ Harry or Voldemort; 3) it must be written in the first person, present tense.


	4. Wishes

**Wishes**

She ushers him into the room as though she expects him to run. She should know better. He's never missed a birthday.

"Neville—"

"Grandmum, please," he says calmly. "I'd like to talk with Mum alone."

His eyes beg her for this simple request, and she relents. When the door finally shuts behind her, he lets out a shaky breath and turns towards his mother.

She lies prone on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes. He walks over to her, carrying flowers in sweaty palms.

"Happy birthday, Mum," he says with a half-smile. He holds up the bouquet and then takes them out of their plastic wrapping and stuffs them haphazardly into an empty vase on her bedside cabinet. "They're daisies. Your favourite."

His smile falters. He doesn't really know if daisies are her favourite—it's just another fact about his mother that he found out through his grandmum.

"I finally started Hogwarts," he says as he sits down beside her. "I met loads of new kids, and…and I-I was sorted into Gryffindor—just like you and dad."

She continues to stare up at the ceiling.

"I met Harry Potter," he adds after a lengthy pause. "He's one of my roommates. You'd really like him, Mum." He nods his head, agreeing with his own sentiment.

He glances over at the vase of flowers and begins to arrange them so that they don't look so skewed. After posing them to his liking, he brings his hands to his lap and begins to fidget.

"They all talk about their mums and dads at school," he whispers, sounding lost, "and I-I dunno what to say, Mum."

She turns her head, and his heart stops beating. Her eyes are still cloudy, but she's looking directly at him. He swallows hard and takes in a hitched breath, blinking away the mutinous tears that roll down his cheeks.

"You know how I am with words: I'm rubbish," he admits with a strangled laugh, trying to attempt levity as he reaches out to take her hand. "I can never say anything right."

Her pinky finger suddenly twitches against the palm of his hand, and her black eyes meet his.

It's too much.

"I wish it wasn't like this!" he cries, bringing his free hand to his eyes. "I wish you could talk. I wish I were never born; then maybe you'd—"

He feels a slight pressure to his palm, and she rubs her finger along his skin. Her eyes seem to be pleading, reassuring, loving.

He nods his head and sniffs loudly. "Okay, Mum."

He gets into bed with her and gently takes her wrist, draping her limp arm over his shoulder. He sinks into her and draws his knees upwards, resting his head between the crook of her neck and shoulder.

"I love you too, Mum," he whispers as the tears flow freely. "I love you too."

* * *

**Challenge**: Write a drabble to honour one of the mothers in the books.

**Restrictions/Rules**:

1. The drabble must be from the POV of a canon character except Harry. The mother does not have to appear or even be given a name in the books. We know every character had a mother, so you are free to name the mother if it isn't given.

2. They are _**not**_ honouring their mother for Mother's Day. It can be her birthday, or theirs, or some other occasion.

3. The occasion for the chosen character honouring their mother must be clearly stated. You must also explain the reasons this character has for honouring their mother.

4. Drabble must be 500 words or less.


	5. If Only

**If Only**

"I'm sorry."

_It isn't the first time I've heard him say that, but it _is_ the first time that I don't care._

"I'm not interested."

"I'm sorry!"

_If the words are meant to mollify me, they don't. They only enrage me._

"Save your breath."

_Here I am, standing in my nightgown outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, glaring at my former best friend._

"I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep out here."

_He looks at me with dark eyes—dark eyes that are red rimmed and glistening. He entreats my forgiveness with them, but I will not absolve him of his sins, not any more._

"I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—"

"Slipped out?"

_He has no idea how livid I truly am. He thinks he knows that I am mad, that I am hurt, but that's not the half of it. He was my best friend, my confident. I defended him for years, and how did he reward me? Insulting me like I was trash._

"It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can even understand why I talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends—"

_He stares at me, unflinching, and I am incensed by his inability to speak against my claims._

"You see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?"

_He opens and closes his mouth, like a fish out of water. He knows that he cannot tell me otherwise, not even to lie. For that one thing, I respect him. It's the reason why I really chose to have this one last talk, to end things properly._

"I can't pretend any more. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine."

_His eyes widen. It isn't what he wanted to hear. It isn't what I wanted to ever have to say to him, but here we are…_

"No—listen, I didn't mean—"

"—to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood. Why should I be any different?"

_He has no answer, and I have no patience to stand there and listen to him fumble for more excuses. I truly thought that he was different, but he isn't. _

_If only things could return to how they used to be, but they can't. It can never be the same._

**xXx**

_My mouth is dry. I fumble for the words that I only seem to reserve for her._

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not interested."

_She really isn't, but I don't know what to say to placate her, to let her know how I truly feel. So I say it again—with emphasis._

"I'm sorry!"

"Save your breath."

_Her eyes, which are always so warm, are now cold. Her voice is like venom dripping off ice. This isn't my Lily._

"I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep out here."

_I'm on the verge of tears, and I can feel it. I want to kneel before her and beg, but I can't. Not yet. So I plead with my eyes._

"I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—"

"Slipped out?"

_She cuts me off. Typical. How did I figure I could talk my way out of this one—with _her_? She reads me so well, but she has a forgiving soul. I know that she will forgive me. She has to._

"It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can even understand why I talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends—"

_I stare at her, unflinching, and she seems to grow incensed by my lack of response._

"You see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?"

_I open my mouth to reply and then close it. She's right. I do want to be a Death Eater. I do want to join him. I cannot lie to her, so I say nothing at all._

"I can't pretend any more. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine."

_No. I don't want to hear this. This can't be it. It can't. She has to forgive me! She's my Lily._

"No—listen, I didn't mean—"

"—to call me Mudblood?"

_Her eyes. Oh Merlin, her eyes… _

"But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood. Why should I be any different?"

_I swallow hard and look away. I glance back up and am on the verge of speech when she turns and steps back inside the portrait door, disappearing. All hope is dashed, denied._

_The thing is, she _is _different. If only I could tell her…_

**xXx**

**Challenge**: Write a drabble (600 words or less) that describes any point in any of the seven Harry Potter books. Your drabble must be canon and include at least two canon characters. The twist on this challenge, however, is that you must write one drabble from one character's point of view, and _another_ drabble from the other character's point of view. Both drabbles must cover precisely the same event and time frame, but the word counts may differ. You may use moments which aren't specifically visited in the book, for example Fred and Angelina's night at the Yule Ball, we know that it happened therefore it is canon and you can write it.

*The dialogue is taken from _The Prince's Tale_ (542) of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Canadian Edition).


	6. Look At Me

**Look At Me**

"Harry!"

I can hear Hermione hissing at my back, but I ignore her. I already have my wand pointed at the crate obscuring my view, and I lift it, silently setting it down.

I begin to crawl into the room, towards him. I have no idea what I'm doing. No idea why I am approaching this dying man—a man I hate.

I stand to my feet and take off the Invisibility Cloak. He turns his head, and his black eyes widen. He opens his mouth, trying to speak, but no words come out. I kneel, bending over him, and he suddenly seizes the front of my robes and pulls me in close.

"Take…it…Take…it…"

His words are garbled and come out as a raspy demand, followed by a gurgling noise as blood seeps from his neck. It's not just blood that pours out of him, but a silvery blue substance, neither liquid nor gas. It spills from every orifice.

I blanch, horrified. I know what it is, but I don't know what to do.

Suddenly, Hermione thrusts a flask into my trembling hands, and I numbly take it. I use my wand to fill the phial with the silver-blue substance until it's filled to the brim. When I am finished, he looks up at me with those black eyes of his, and his grip on me begins to slack.

"Look at me…" he whispers.

He struggles for a moment, searching my eyes, and I see a glimmer of something. It is fleeting, because just as instantly as it appears, it vanishes, blinking out of existence. The angry life that had once sparked in those charcoal black eyes was now gone. Instead, they stare up at me dull, blank, lifeless. His hand falls to the floor with a listless thud. Severus Snape would move no more.

The man I hated more than Voldemort is now dead. Somehow, I am not comforted by this fact. Instead, I am lost.

**xXx**

My fingers feebly try to staunch the bleeding from my neck, but it is no use. I am going to die on the dirty floor of this rat hole, alone.

"Harry!"

I hear someone hiss his name. It is a faint cry, a whisper. It figures that he is here, spying.

I try to turn my head in the direction of the voice when I notice a crate floating in the air and then lowering to the floor. Suddenly, he appears, casting off that damnable cloak of his father's. My eyes widen in shock, as does his. I knew he was here, but I never thought he'd approach me while I am…dying.

I try to open my mouth, to speak, but the words won't come out. He steps closer and kneels, bending over my body, looking down at me with those soft, green eyes of his. His mother's eyes. Lily's eyes.

I now know what I must do. I cannot leave this world being thought of as a monster by the last living representation of her. So I muster strength from every muscle in my aching body and reach up to seize the front of his robes with my bloody hands, pulling him towards me.

"Take…it…Take…it…"

My mantra is my swan's song, never to be heard again. Memories begin to seep from my veins, and I can feel them leave me. I pray that there is a bit of his mother in him, knowing instinctively what to do.

My eyesight begins to dim, and I see him gathering my memories, pouring them into a phial. I can't hold onto him much longer. I'm so very tired.

The song is ending now, and I know that this is the end. I need one last look—something _good_ and familiar to see before I meet my maker.

"Look at me…"

His eyes are so much like my Lily's. I imagine that it is she who is looking down at me with a mixture of horror and sympathy. I try to smile.

My Lily, my…

* * *

**Challenge**: Same as the last drabble I wrote, _If Only_. This one is from the Trio Era.

* The dialogue was taken from _The Elder Wand_ (528) of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Canadian edition).


	7. Fun Facts About Felix Felicis

**Fun Facts About Felix Felicis**

A couple of things you should know about Felix Felicis:

1. It is a rare potion, which is very difficult to make.

2. The potion is banned in organised competitions, such as sports, examinations, or elections.

3. A 'miniscule' phial can contain twelve hours of potency—and one mouthful can last two or three hours.

4. Once consumed, the potion gives the drinker an exhilarated feeling of confidence and a tremendous sense of opportunity. However, if taken in excess, the potion causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence.

5. Before Harry Potter, only one other student under Slughorn's tutelage had ever won the coveted prize.

6. The winner was Severus Snape.

7. After imbibing a small amount of Felix Felicis, Snape had experienced a euphoric few hours of unadulterated, limitless luck. In this time, he had managed to pants James Potter, kiss Lily Evans, and single-handedly wrestle a Hippogriff into submission! …Okay, so the last part never happened, but the humiliation of Potter did—as did the chaste kiss to Lily's lips.

8. Snape savoured each accomplishment with unparalleled delight.

9. During Neville Longbottom's seventh year at Hogwarts, the Gryffindor had managed to obtain an ampoule of liquid luck for his birthday. Neville saved this potion and decided to use it on his first day of school. Before breakfast, Neville drained the bottle in one large gulp, and the next twelve hours went as such:

a) Neville raised his hand for every question asked in class, and gave the _correct _answers.

b) Neville spotted Draco Malfoy heading to the Great Hall for lunch. The Gryffindor sprinted over to the Slytherin and cold-cocked him in the face. Crabbe and Goyle sprang to their prone mate's side and challenged Neville to an unfair fight.

c) Neville won.

d) Feeling restless after his fights, Neville took off into the Forbidden Forest to 'relax'. He didn't find any Hippogriffs to wrestle, but he did come across an Acromantula. Neville didn't even take out his wand. He just stared it down until the beast turned away and fled back into the forest.

e) Neville came back into the castle, late for class, and Headmaster Snape dragged him into his office. In the midst of being lectured, Neville turned his back on the professor and opened the door, offering Snape a two-finger salute before he exited the room.

f) After dinner, Neville cornered Hannah Abbot and asked her how good she was at 'finding things' and then suggestively looked down at his trousers. Hannah blushed several shades of pink, and Neville asked her out on a date. She immediately said yes.

g) Neville went to bed thinking that Felix Felicis had given him the best day of his life. What Neville didn't know was that he hadn't drunk liquid luck. Instead, he had drunk watered-down Pumpkin Juice supplied to him by his grandmum, who had done so to boost his confidence.

What is the moral to these fun facts about Felix Felicis? There isn't one. Sometimes a placebo is just as good as the real thing.

* * *

**Challenge**: Your chosen character (and it can be _anyone_) is celebrating their birthday. They receive a gift from a mystery benefactor. They think it's Felix Felicis and because your character would love a bit o' 'liquid luck', he or she downs it in one gulp. **BUT…**It isn't Felix Felices. What the Potion is, and what effects it has on the birthday boy or girl, are up to you. You may set this in any era, in any setting, and with any character. All drabbles should be under 500 words.


	8. Muted

**Muted**

My world is muted. Everything is subdued, surreal, clothed only in dismal shades of grey. My eyes blink mechanically, like shutters on a camera, blankly capturing the image of an empty archway before me, expecting a ruse.

I know that I'm supposed to be registering something right now, filing away bits of information, but my mind refuses to comply. Everything seems to be placed on pause, and the silence that hangs heavily in the air is thick and stifling.

_How has it come to this?_

I continue to stare at the vacant archway as though searching for a latent memory. I can't remember why I feel so scared and lost, but I _know_ that I can't express these feelings. Not now. The answers seem to hang in the air, lingering, like the memory of a name teasing on the tip of my tongue. I should be feeling _something_ right now, not curtained by the dark, numinous cloak of denial. I have mentally shut down, and I have no idea why.

Instinct, however, has not completely left me, for my body reacts without my mind's urging, and I reach out to grab someone who has rushed towards the doorway. His body shudders violently against mine as he struggles, but I hold him still. His mouth opens, and his cries billow out like invisible smoke. The world is still muted for me though, and his silence is deafening.

Then come a torrent of sounds: a cackle, evil and calculated, swiftly followed by a blood-curdling scream. It is a cry filled with pain, anger, and sorrow. It vibrates against my chest, and I feel my heart swell, crying with it.

_Nothing is forever._

Colour suddenly floods back into my world, and my mind no longer feeds me this painless subterfuge. Reality finally sinks in, and it is overwhelming, drowning me in a sea of guilt and regret.

_Harry!_

My grip on him slackens, and he breaks free, running after her with seething rage in his heart. I watch him take flight, as though in slow motion, unable or unwilling to stop him. I cannot help him now. My own pain weighs me down until I am forced to kneel before its mockery.

I turn my head back towards the black archway, foolishly hoping to see my old friend step out of the mist. Foolish hope. Now that hope fades to gloom, to guilt and despair.

_How could I let him go?_

How could I let any of them be taken from me: James, Sirius, Harry? I have failed them all. In their time of need, I gave in to fear and doubt. If only I was a stronger man, but I'm not. I'm a man who lives in a world where the young and brave perish and the weak and evil thrive.

_How has it come to this?_

I rise to my feet, feeling the burden of an incalculable weight resting square on my shoulders, deadening me. I want to feel a punch inside my chest like a heartbeat, reminding me that I'm real, that I'm whole, that I have something to live for. Instead, the numbness washes over me completely, and I find myself settling once more for the silence, muting the world around me.

* * *

**A/N: **This is a response to a prompt, which asks to see Remus's PoV during the movie scene from OotP where Sirius falls through the Veil and Remus grabs Harry and holds him back.

I decided to go with the idea of where the brain cannot handle traumatic events (even while they are happening) and purposely blots them out, essentially 'muting' memories, whether they be temporary or permanent. However, the mind does like to give subtle hints as to what is actually happening, and you can see that in the italics. ^^


	9. The March

**The March**

**I**

Thirty days, thirty days,

Thirty days more,

Into the shadows of the moor

Marched the weary and the brave.

'Never back down!

Liberté! Équalité! Fraternité!' the Parisian cried:

Into the shadows of the moor

Marched the weary and the brave.

**II**

'Never back down!'

Nary would a man or woman dare?

No, they'd fight for freedom,

They'd triumph or die:

To fulfil orders said,

To do what others dread,

To bleed blood that's red,

Into the shadows of the moor

Marched the weary and the brave.

**III**

Death to the left of them,

Death to the right of them,

Death lying boldly in front of them.

Burned and rotted;

Defiled with weapon and spell.

Steadfast they soldiered on, well

Into the valley of Death, well

Into the fires of Hell

Marched the weary and the brave.

**IV**

Flitwick'd their wands high,

Flares and curses lit up the sky

Some taking cover, here and there,

They charged the enemy, while

The world stopped and stared:

Bursting through the initial affray

Benign forces led their way;

Enemy and ally

All staggered from the fray

But not all could be saved.

Once more into the mêlée

Marched the weary and the brave.

**V**

Death to the left of them,

Death to the right of them,

Death following closely behind them.

Burned and rotted;

Defiled with weapon and spell,

Those who lived never could tell

Of the icicle of hate that came from the bell

That tolled in the valley of Death,

And rose out of the fires of Hell,

Those who survived the onslaught,

The weary and the brave.

**VI**

Never let their memory fade,

Weep for broken bodies laid!

The world _will_ stop and stare,

Lament the prices paid,

Honour the sacrifices made

Of the weary and the brave.

* * *

**Author notes: **This poem was written in response to **Poetry Anyone**'s Copycat Challenge. My chosen poet to emulate was Lord Alfred Tennyson and the specific style of his poem _The Charge of the Light Brigade_.

Certain words (or variations of those words) had to be incorporated into the poem: Flitwick, Paris, icicle, benign, thirty. See if you can spot them straight off! ^_~


	10. The Sky is Clear and Blue

**The Sky is Clear and Blue**

The sky is clear and blue,  
With not a single cloud in sight.  
A lovelier day could not do,  
As doves take air in flight.

But such a mood is deceiving,  
And nothing can be done  
For a mother grieving  
The loss of her beloved son.

His body lies too still,  
Over it their eyes slowly pan:  
A boy who never had his fill,  
Too young to die a man.

The words begin to pour like dirt  
On a coffin ivory white.  
Eyes are swollen and burnt  
From tears they cannot fight.

The family gathers 'round,  
All identical in their grief.  
Their sorrow has no bound,  
Their pain has no relief.

They listen to the song,  
As they commend him to the ground.  
A brother now forever gone;  
No solace will be found.

Yet, the sky is blue and clear,  
With no rain overhead.  
But never would there be a cheer  
On the day they bury Fred.

* * *

**Author notes:** This poetry challenge was to write a scene or sentiment that would be expressed in the eighth book of Harry Potter, if Rowling were so inclined to continue (yes, we're delusional).


	11. Daddy's Hands

**Daddy's Hands**

What I remember the most about my Daddy were his hands. Silly thing to remember, I suppose, but it was his hands that tucked me in at night; it was his hands that comforted me and cared for me; it was his hands that made me realise what a true father was.

Daddy's hands were not exceptionally big, but they wide and flat, always smudged with ink. As a child, I had thought that this was what all men's—all Daddys'—hands looked like: covered with ink. Every night, before bed, I'd take one of his large hands in mine and try to read a story between the calluses and lines. Daddy did love stories, and his hands always told a wonderful tale.

Daddy's hands weren't always gentle, but they were kind and fair. Mummy's hands were soft, with long, thin fingers—pianist hands, my Daddy called them. In turn, I'd look at my own hands, small yet plump, and wonder whose hands I'd grow into: Mummy's or Daddy's. Our hands may have been different, but there was always so much love in Daddy's hands.

But then there came a day—there's always a day, always an event—when I no longer examined my hands, or Daddy's. It was the day we found her; the day that Daddy's hands would later be forever tattooed in ink; the day I discovered someone else's hands. It was the day my mum died.

Daddy's hands were trembling then, finding her lying amidst a ruin of smoking experiments and burning papers. There was a smell of sulphur in the air, and the smoke stung my eyes, forcing me to cry about a concept I had yet to fully grasp. She lay in the soot like a sleeping angel, and I went over to wake her, thinking that she was just napping on the floor (I still do that). It was then that I noticed a worn and frayed photograph clutched in her still hand. I bent down to retrieve it, and Daddy choked back a sob, yelling at me not to touch her. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back, but I took the picture anyway, to study what my mother had last seen before she died.

The photograph itself was old: a picture of a handsome man, much younger than Mummy or Daddy, dressed in school clothes. His hair was dark, as were his eyes, and his mouth held a mischievous grin. It was a cheeky face—a face that held secrets and laughter. It wasn't his face, though, that captivated me; it was his hands. They were _my_ hands. Looking down at Daddy crying, kneeling beside Mummy, I knew.

So, I dropped the photograph and walked away. From that day on, I stopped asking to look at Daddy's hands. I did not do this out of anger but out of love. Those ink-stained hands were my Daddy's. And though there is so much more to remember or even forget about the man, I will never forget the love in my _real_ Daddy's hands.

**Fin**

**Author notes: **The challenge for this drabble was to write common clichés found in Harry Potter fanfiction. The cliché prompt chosen was to write a convincing drabble (800 words or less) in which the main character finds out that his or her father is really 'Love God', Sirius Black (quotes are not mine). Can you guess who the love child is? ^_^


	12. Never Meant To Be

**Never Meant To Be**

_Tom,_

We were never meant to be.

You told me I was your everything: your love, your angel, your soul. Pretty words written on parchment, pretty words whispered in my ear. They were sweet, but they were lies. Beautiful lies. Sadly, I wanted to believe them. I had to.

Maybe I convinced myself that they were lies. You know how I am. It's easier to rationalise that it was all a game to you than believe that you simply gave up, that you changed your mind, that you decided love was only rhetoric.

Maybe we both lied to each other, or maybe we only shared half-truths. We wanted something to feel, something to believe in. Maybe we're meant to love and hate and cry and laugh. Maybe we're never meant to make our minds up, and there's no point in trying to stop this—the loving and the hating and the hurting and the gut-wrenching pain.

It doesn't matter what I've convinced myself of, whether your love was real or imagined. We were never meant to be, remember? We were always from two different worlds, and we were romantic fools to believe this could ever work. So, we messed things up, didn't we? But we tried. Yes. We tried so _damn_ hard.

I even tried to convince myself that I didn't love you any more. It was a lie, a sad, pathetic lie. I wish I could turn off my emotions. I wish I could become numb, unfeeling. But I love you so much, and it kills me; it kills us. My love, your love, the _end_ of that love, our love, feels like a knife in my chest—a blade twisting open a wound so that it will never heal. And I am left bleeding on the floor.

But I'm sick of this. I'm sick of the crying, of the doubting, of the loving, of the hating, and of the dying—dying with regrets, with oaths unfulfilled, with resentment in my heart.

You know that if you wanted me, if you asked me to come back, I would. I'd be a damnable fool, but I'd come. We both know, however, that that would never happen because...

We were never meant to be.

_Love,_

_Minerva_

**-x-**

**Author notes:** Another cliché challenge in which the main character is either a Gryffindor or a Slytherin. The idea of this 800 word or less drabble is to focus on the forbidden love of a Gryffindor and Slytherin. It's not terribly convincing, but I was in a bitter mood when I wrote this. Can you tell?


	13. The Dim Witted Deluge

**The Dim-Witted Deluge**

"Oh…bugger me!"

A tall, weedy-looking wizard slumped down in defeat beside another wizard, who was short and stocky and none-too impressed. The two robed wizards sat atop a large rock, which was actually the tip of a mountain that was immersed in water. For miles around, all that could be seen was the vast gulf of a new-made sea—new-made by a tall wizard called Ernie.

"Y-You…" The stocky wizard (called Bill) paused, trying to find the right words to convey his most intimate thoughts to his friend at that exact moment. "You idiot!" he swore. "_You_ caused the great flood of all mankind!"

Ernie's shoulders drooped forward. "I didn't mean to," he said to Bill, in his defence.

"Oh, well as long as you didn't _mean_ to," Bill retorted, throwing his hands up to the heavens (at least it had stopped raining).

"What are we going to do about this?" Ernie asked, after a moment's pause (and after Bill had finished soliciting serenity from the gods above).

"Nothing," came his terse, grumpy reply.

"Nothing?"

"That's right, Ernie," Bill answered, standing to his feet and wiping at his soaking wet robes that were quite out of place with the time that they were now in, compared to the time that these two twentieth century wizards came from.

"But—"

"We're going to go back to the Department of Mysteries," Bill said, interrupting Ernie, "and we're going to make it so that these damn Time-Turners—" he pointed to the hour-glass pendant that hung around his neck, "—are a) only be used for short-term travel, b) not allowed to alter events that have already happened, and c) to be kept on Ministry grounds _only_, unless given special permission."

"But—"

"No _buts_, Ernie," Bill said, taking in a deep breath as he rubbed at the blue vein that throbbed in his right temple. "These things are dangerous when left in the hands of idiots." He looked directly at Ernie.

Ernie, in turn, sheepishly bowed his head and rose to his feet, pocketing the wand that had helped create the greatest deluge in the history of mankind.

"So...should we build an ark before we leave?"

"…Shut up, Ernie."

**

* * *

**

**Prompt:** The Wizarding World Flood Myth  
**Timeline:** 3000 BC and reference to some time in the early twentieth century  
**Word Count:** 367  
**Author's Notes:** Yeah, I went for humour instead of something with value.


	14. For My Next Trick

**A/N:** I'd like to think this drabble represents the bitterness, envy, regret, and the indefatigable spirit of a tragically flawed man. It is to be read like a monologue, with ugh! as the sound of the narrator coughing.

**

* * *

**

_You can put me in chains and I will escape  
Better not wait up 'cause I might be late  
I can make love disappear  
For my next trick I'll need a volunteer_

**-x-**

**For My Next Trick**

_Für das größere wohl._

For the greater good – that is what we called it: our plans, our ambitions. We were brilliant men with brilliant visions – power at our fingertips, authority on our lips.

But what has come of it all now? What do they think of us – of _you_, dear friend?

I – I am the monster, for saying and doing what others had only thought about, had only dreamt about in their feeble little minds. But _they_ – they dared not try. Nein. Ha ha ha! How could they – how could _you_? It is the ambitious man, the man without fear, who takes the plunge into greatness. And what a fall into greatness it was – into darkness and doubt.

Ugh! ugh!—ugh!

They told you I felt remorse in the end, did they?

Pray tell, who was there to hear the litany of my sins and guide me through my expiation? You? My loyal followers? Ha ha ha! And what end do you speak of – whose end? Mine? Ha. Nein, I will never have an end. I will always live on in the minds and hearts of the strong and determined.

Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh!

Oh, Albus… You were always such an idealist, such a bleeding heart. You can take the rabbit out of the hat, but you cannot put it back. Can never… never put it back.

Nein, nein. I have confronted my demons, knowing that there will be more to face before the end, before the string is finally cut and I return to the place before the womb. There I will meet my maker. There I will find true judgement, won't I?

Hmm. You know, they never understood me like you did, Albus. You and I, we were young men caught in a fervour – no better or no worse than the rest. Our ideals were no different than the founding fathers, than the pioneers of democracy and wizardry. Only I won no war – you saw to that. Heh. Ugh! ugh! ugh! Nein, history would not be written in _my_ favour; my deeds would be recorded in the annals of sin: the most dangerous Dark Wizard of all time – nein! The _second_ most dangerous. Darkest. Greatest.

You had to go breathe life into another troubled young mind and nurture his growth – didn't you? It was always in your nature, I suppose. And when he sought power greater than yours, you turned against him, _denied_ him. He was another me in your mind, another Dark Wizard to put down, another _Grindelwald_ to defeat. Ugh!

_Für das größere wohl._

For the greater good, you told that other orphan. You convinced yourself that i_this_/i one would not turn bad – nein, not if you encouraged him properly… from a distance. You had learnt from your past mistakes: by getting too close you had offered them your power, your love – your fidelity.

Ha ha ha!

And when you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you!

I was your abyss, dear friend, and now I am nothing more than skin and bones and faded memories. You tried your best to put me in chains and lock me away, but from your heart, I could not escape. I was always there.

They thought I had felt remorse in the end? Nein, nein, nein, nein. It was regret. Regret. But don't we all have our regrets, especially when our end draws near?

Ugh! ugh!—ugh!

Look at me now. I am a sorry old bastard, aren't I? I always was, you know. Heh. You, though – you were always so venial. So noble. So vulnerable.

Hmm. I used your love; I know, but you let me. And when you had no desire left to follow me, I took it all away. Like a magician – _poof!_ – I made love disappear.

But I couldn't bring it back. Nein. I couldn't put the stupid rabbit back in the hat. And that – _that_ I have always regretted – always regretted using and losing you…

Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh!

The demons, they are here now – and so is he: your first protégé. I hear him on the wind, the most dangerous Dark Wizard of all time.

Ha!

I know what he wants from me, what he desires. But this Riddle, he does not know me. Nein. Not like you – you who always knew the nature of trickster's soul. He will not get what he wants because he is not you, Albus, and he certainly is not me. And I am not as old and defeated as he wants to believe.

Nein! The spotlight has not yet faded on this old 'magician'. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve to play.

All I need is a volunteer.

**-The End-**

**

* * *

Challenge: **Use the mood of the song _For My Next Trick I'll Need A Volunteer_ (live) by Warren Zevon to write a drabble (300-800 words), any pairing except Marauders.

* * *

_Für das größere wohl_ – "For the greater good": Grindelwald's motto and the slogan that hung above the entrance to Nurmengard.

"_When you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you_" – paraphrased quote from Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil (Aphorism 146).


	15. Joke's On You

**Joke's On You**

Sure, I know who ya are. You're Potter's boy – the oldest one. I ne'er forget a face.

C'mere, and 'ave a seat. I don't bite, lad, so stop givin' me the evil eye. Fine, don't sit. Lemme just tell ya somethin': I recognised ya immediately by the way ya walk, even before I got a good look at that face of yers. Ya 'ave a swagger to ya, lad – a strut. Reminds me of yer uncles – the twins – and especially yer grandfather, James. I guess it's rather apt that yer named after him, innit?

Now, c'mon and just 'ave a seat. Sit with me a spell, would ya. Over 'ere on the steps, where the sun is nice and warm spillin' in through the window. My arthritis bothers me less in the sun.

Yes, right 'ere beside me. Mind the splinters – there might be a few. I 'aven't got round to sanding them yet. My arthritis, ya know. I'm really just a fixture 'ere now. Every year, they expect me to retire, but why leave the only place I've been accepted at?

Would ya stop fidgeting! Yer sent to me, remember? Yer punishment is 'aving to spend the afternoon with a crotchety ol' Squib. And what _exactly_ did ya get in trouble fer? Doing what yer uncles and grandfather did best!

Don't ya back talk me, lad. There may be no magic in me, but I can still make yer life a living hell 'ere, so mind yer manners and sit yer arse back down on the stairs. Good. Can ya sit still fer a few minutes and listen? Kids dunno how to respect thar elders nowadays.

Yer a lotta trouble and aggravation, you know that? Just like yer uncles. Trouble and aggravation are mostly made up of ordinary things. Undramatic things. And all it takes is a smart arse like ya to blow thing outta proportion and make a huge mess that I end up 'aving to clean.

But what ya lot forget – yeah, _yer lot_: yer uncles, yer grandfather, even yer da' – is that life 'as a way of correctin' itself. Karma is what they call it. Ya see, when ya mess with someone, the laws of nature get ya back – two-fold.

Don't sit thar and tell me that yer innocent or that them Slytherins deserved to be pranked 'cause they're Slytherins. It don't matter if they deserved it or not. What matters is that ya broke the rules o' nature, and nature gets sore at ya when ya do that. Very sore.

What will she do? Oh, yer just a young lad yet, and I un'erstand that yer not versed in such subjects as karma or retribution, but ya do un'erstand punishment – don't ya? Yeah, I thought you would. Now, don't tremble, lad. It won't be that bad working fer me fer the rest of the year ... and into the next. That is, o' course, if ya last that long at Hogwarts.

A whole year workin' as my assistant caretaker, yes. Ye'll be reportin' to me ev'ery day after class. All yer free time will be spent helpin' me. Already talked to yer parents about ya stayin' during the summer to work. Ya won't be gettin' into any mischief then, now will ya?

Lad? _Lad_?

Merlin's pants, the boy fainted. Figures. His line ne'er was burdened with an over abundance of brains. For jokesters, not one of 'em could ev'r take a joke very well, especially on April Fool's Day.

* * *

**Challenge:** Your drabble must include either a Marauder (or all of them), a Weasley twin (or both), or James Sirius Potter (because I reckon he's the joker in the pack). However, they are to be the victim of the prank. It has to take place at Hogwarts or Hogsmeade. If you write Marauder Era, you may use Peter or Remus to prank James or Sirius, but not vice versa.


	16. Time

**Time**

Outside they are toasting to the fallen with cheers and smiles and tears and tales of bravery and heroism. War stories. Stories of triumph and glory. She, however, remains indoors, alone with her thoughts and her sorrow.

It has been a year since she last saw him, sitting alone at the Slytherin table, brooding as usual. He always had the look of a man hunted, lost and found, driven and hopeless, all in the same breath. A man – _a boy_ – conflicted with choices, yet never making any. A slave to the incessant reasoning of his own beautiful mind.

The months have passed quickly; so quickly, in fact, that she wonders if she imagined it all: the war, the senseless deaths, the allegiances formed and broken in the blink of an eye. It has all blurred before her vision like a fleeting image, like the flap of a hummingbird's wings – too quick to catch with the naked eye. The days between the months have stretched out, linear and predictable, and jarred like shards of glass beneath her feet.

He has dropped clean off the face of the earth, and his departure has left an ache in parts of her that she had not even known were empty. The void in her heart, though, cannot so easily be filled. He has dissolved into the blood and water of her dreams, and maybe it is safer that way. Safer, but without closure, without substance …

Time has become slow and cold. Not even the parades in the streets can do anything to lift her spirits or warm her heart to the possibility of change, of good triumphing over evil, of a day – of a life – saved. Instead, she sits in front of the window and waits for him to return – waiting on a hope and a prayer and on a miracle that will never happen. And this thought of him never returning to her sends a panic racing through her heart; fears begins to spread like rumours, ballooning until they takes over everything, including her last screed of hope.

She knows that war changes a person: makes one reflect on who one is, where one is going, and who one has the potential to be. And the ending of war can bring peace, no doubt, a certain optimism and hope that cannot be easily taken away. But that peace – that hope – does not apply to everyone. In war there are winners and there are losers; there are those who celebrate and those who mourn. For some, the war is not over yet. Perhaps it never will be. For it takes time to heal the soul, as it takes time and dedication to change.

No, she will not weep for the fallen. Not yet. For not all the soldiers have returned home.

* * *

**Challenge:** Write a drabble concerning one of the anniversaries of the Battle of Hogwarts. You may write in any tense and any PoV, as long as it takes place on the anniversary - so that's May 2nd. The Catch, however, is that you cannot write from these POV's: Harry, Hermione, and anyone _born_ with the surname Weasley.

**Word Count:** 476

**Author Notes:** I left this quite open-ended as to who the couple was, but one of them is – you've guessed it – Theodore Nott.


	17. Warning

**A Warning**

Tonight, it's Black rather than Potter who's the last to leave the Common Room before Lily. He lingers around the opposite side of the sofa she's seated at, aimlessly paging through some textbook until, by chance, she glances up and locks her eyes with his.

He holds himself loosely, relaxed and at home, like a cat bathing in the sun. But that face of his has whole worlds buried behind those grey eyes of his, and not all of them are ones Lily would be keen to visit.

"I'd be careful with James, if I were you," he says lightly, almost jokingly, and Lily feels her ears heat with the shame of a child caught with her finger in a tub of icing.

Sirius spares her the indignity of blatantly staring at her, and for that she isn't sure whether to feel grateful or slighted. Instead, he wanders off toward the boys' dormitory – all interest in her personal life seemingly lost – as languid and nonchalant as ever.

It's the same coiled yet cool, wild-cat elegance of his that she imagines is what keeps Sirius out of trouble – well, out of any more trouble than he already gets into. It's his easy, devil-may-care attitude, she assumes, that gets him into mischief in the first place.

"There are skeletons in his closet that even he's not prepared to face, let alone you." He carefully adjusts his robes and then offers her a smirk, waiting for her baulk at him. Instead, she snorts derisively.

"Projecting yourself much, Black?" she counters, and feels slight satisfaction in seeing his confident smirk falter.

Part of her is still shrinking from embarrassment, but another part, a much larger and strong-willed part of her, flares in defiance at being treated like a child, like someone who couldn't possibly know darkness or heartache and sorrow.

"All I'm saying is to watch yourself," he adds, his tone thick and heavy.

"I appreciate the concern, Black—" she turns the page in her book a bit more violently than necessary "—but I'm a big girl."

He faces her, and there's a sudden hard-edge to his grey eyes and a narrow smile that Lily doesn't quite understand.

"I didn't say it for your benefit, Evans."

And with that puzzling smile, Sirius Black strides away.

* * *

**Challenge:** Write a mix-match pairing.

**Prompt:** Claire and Bender [The Breakfast Club]


	18. There is no silver lining

**A/N:** This poem was written for a copycat challenge, where I had to emulate a favourite author's poem. I chose Emily Dickinson's _There is another sky _for my inspiration. Additionally, I had to incorporate these five words into my poem: key, paper, yellow, weary, _Lumos_.

Can you guess who the poem is about?

* * *

**There is no silver lining**

-x-

There is no silver lining  
In the cloud of my despair,  
And there is no yellow sun  
That shines through when you're not there;  
Never forget the jokes and laughs, dear brother,  
Never forget the promises made—  
Made on paper and in oath,  
Of a bond that will never fade—  
But the key to our enterprise is lost,  
No more mischief to be made;  
With a sad and weary heart, dear brother,  
It is I who must let you go  
Where nary a _Lumos_ can shine,  
And darkness is all I know.

-x-


	19. In Which Draco Breaks The Fourth Wall

**In Which Draco Breaks The Fourth Wall . . . Repeatedly**

"No, I won't do it. I simply won't! I've had enough."

"Uhm, Draco, you're—you're not saying your lines."

"And I won't! This entire affair is absolute rubbish, and I won't stand for it anymore! I won't be a figure of mockery any longer."

"I don't think—"

"Think? You don't _think_ about anything! Besides, if I wanted your opinion, I'd ask for it. Am I asking you now? No! So get bent."

"Draco, I just wanted to be nice and celebrate your birthday."

"By giving me a set of pearls? Honestly, do I look like the kind of bloke who wears pearls?"

"Well, I—"

"I don't care what Blaise has told you! That was just one time. ONE time! And it was for a laugh, alright. Theo dared me."

"Uhm, okay . . ."

"Don't give me that look!"

"What look?"

"The raised eyebrow coupled with a smirk. I _invented_that look!"

"Okay, someone's a little tetchy today. You know, just because you're turning thirty-one there's no reason to throw a wobbly."

"I'm not throwing a wobbly! I'm fan-bloody-tastic! I'm just sick of all you women – and I use the term loosely – fawning over me. It's disgusting!"

"Really now?"

"Yes, _really_. I also don't appreciate all these ghastly stories being posted about me snogging the She-Weasel or that Mudblood Granger or – Merlin forbid – that sodding sod, Potter. _Potter_! How do you figure any of that?"

"Well, that's because some girls fancy you a Slytherin Sex God."

"Sex on the _what now_? How absurd! I mean, it's not like I don't know my way around women, but I have better taste than to be bedding half the female population of Hogwarts. _Please_."

"So, you're not a Casanova, then?"

"Cas-a-what? Speak English, woman!"

"Casanova: he was this Italian author known for his—Eh, forget about it."

"I swear, you women are completely mental. M-e-n-t-a-l. I'm sick of your lot pairing me up with anyone else besides Astoria."

"Alright, fine. It's your birthday, so I'll accommodate that wish. I won't write any non-Draco-slash-Astoria stories today. Anything else?"

"Yes. Tell that Rowling woman that she had better retract what she wrote earlier about me having a receding hairline. The nerve of that woman. The absolute nerve! I think I might just pull out all my hair because you fan girls are driving me BONKERS!"

"Okay, Draco. Okay. Will do. I'm going to go now and let you stew in peace. Happy birthday . . . again."

"Yeah, whatever . . . Stupid Muggle."

* * *

**Author notes:** Written for the Fourth Wall challenge for the Draco Characterisation Workshop on the DG Forum. Was also written in conjunction with Draco's birthday and using the prompt pearls (Draco's birthday stone).


End file.
